I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
by Celesteennui
Summary: They don't hate each other, far from it, but they don't always see eye to eye. Snippets of Fenris and Hawke's rivalmance over the course of the three acts.
1. Act I: Hawke

**Disclaimer**

Bioware owns everything; I'm just pissing around with the toys they loaned me. Reviews are nice

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I do not love you except because I love you;  
I go from loving to not loving you,  
From waiting to not waiting for you  
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;  
I hate you deeply, and hating you  
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you  
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume  
My heart with its cruel  
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who  
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,  
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

—Pablo Neruda

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**Act I: Hawke**

**The Best Laid Plans**

The first time that Hawke meets him, she _knows_ that liking him will be impossible. Fenris' first actions in front of her involve ripping the heart right out of a man—granted, as a slave hunter she's loathe to count that one as a man—and revealing he's lied to her. He can twist the words all he wants but in the end, they're lies just the same.

Her opinion of him rises when they fight together in Danarius' mansion but then quickly slides back down when the dust settles and he starts in on mages. While Bethany, who helped to save his hide, is present no less. He pays her though, as promised, and even makes an apology…that she condemns as bullshit. Hawke has no intention of taking for his proffered help, despite her earlier acceptance, until three nights later.

"I saw that elf at the hanged man tonight," Bethany says as she undresses for bed. Hawke looks up from the journal in her lap; it's the one thing she refuses to give up from her old life. The Blight took Carver, her home, her friends, but it will not take her habits. Least of all the one her father taught her to hold dearest.

Bethany's giggle is muffled as she pulls her woolen nightshirt over her head. "He's a _terrible_ diamondback player."

Hawke snorts, turning attention back to her journal. "Really? Hard to believe his _one_ expression isn't working for him."

While they _do_ have their own beds, Bethany almost always ends up in Hawke's. It's her way of coping with Carver's loss still; the twins had shared a bed as small children and curled together during bad times even when they were older. With Carver gone, it's Hawke's place to be Bethany's comfort and she accepts it without any resentment. Gamlen's home is drafty and she never could say no to her little sister's sad eyes anyway. They're their father's eyes, after all and if Hawke's ever jealous of anything it's that Bethany got his looks while _she_ resembles the unfamiliar Amells.

Still giggling, Bethany leans into her side and Hawke shifts to accommodate her sister and her journal. "His ears twitch when he's bluffing. I felt sorry for him; anyone else besides Varric and Isabela wouldn't have noticed."

"Well, that's why he shouldn't play against Varric and Isabela, isn't it?" she chuckles, wondering if perhaps she should have gone out that night instead of taking that small job from Meeran. As broody and cold as Fenris comes off, seeing him with twitchy ears would have surely been a moment.

"He walked me home when I left," Bethany murmurs into the arm of Hawke's tunic. She's half asleep, eyelids drooping. She must have had a bit of wine while she was out; wine doesn't make Bethany tipsy so much as drowsy.

_That_ surprises her and she quirks an eyebrow over at her sister. "Really now? So his opinions on mages being all demonic and doomy varies with a pretty face? What resolve."

"He did it for you," her sister says.

"_What_?"

Bethany's speech slurs and Hawke knows she's only got a few more seconds to squeeze her little sister for information. Once Bethany is sleeping, she _stays_ sleeping and Hawke doesn't relish the idea of stewing over this until morning. "For you. Said he…owes you. F'help keeping him free…"

As she watches her sister slide into the Fade, Hawke sighs rubbing the bridge of her nose. She's going to have to trek up to High Town tomorrow and ask Fenris with her to the coast.

Dammit, she'd _just_ made up her mind to hate him, too.

**A Mirror Never Lies**

He really isn't bad on the eyes; no one who's interested in men can deny that. And there's something…_very_ nice about his voice—when he's not grumbling about something. It's like velvet on the ears. Still, Hawke finds herself wondering what on earth came over her as she exits Fenris' home after her first visit.

She's no prude, she's not Isabela, but she's had enough warm bodies in her bed that turning into a babbling fool around the opposite sex doesn't happen. And yes, technically, flirting with Fenris _isn't_ that but it's still…_not normal_.

Gamlen isn't home when she arrives; it's just Mother, sitting at the table mending clothes. Bethany is helping Anders at his clinic and Hawke trusts the other mage—and Varric's little spy network _and_ the Mabari—to return her little sister in good shape.

Her mother doesn't look up but somehow she still knows that it's her walking into the hovel. "You're back early." She gestures toward a rye loaf and small wheel sitting at the table's center. "The stew's still on, but there's cheese and bread if you're hungry now."

Hawke isn't really hungry but she finds herself cutting off a modest hunk of both foods and plopping down into the chair opposite her mother.

Leandra is no mage, she can barely apply poultices correctly (one of her few flaws) but Hawke has always thought there was something…_otherworldly_ about her mother. Perhaps that isn't the right word but the fact is Leandra has some sort of power in her that a normal woman does not. If she doesn't, Hawke would truly like to know how it is that her mother can hear the slightest differentiation in her children's faces or footsteps and sense that something is off.

She'd swear it was some sort of secret blood magic.

Raising her eyes finally from her sewing, Leandra's brows pull upward ever so slightly. "A difficult day, my love?" she asks.

They have the same eyes, she and her mother; she was told often enough growing up that she looked even more like an Amell than Mother did. She always disliked that, though she never told anyone so. She wanted to look like her father, the strong, patient, clever man who let her climb trees and toss knives while her mother nagged about ripped hems and what it meant to be a young lady. It's why she goes by Hawke to everyone outside the family; it's the childlike need of a grown woman to always be seen first and foremost as her father's daughter.

There is something very nice, though, she's gotten to realize over the years, about having her mother's eyes. It's like a mirror from time to time, Mother can look at her and see things hidden in the blue-gray depths that no one else ever can or ever will. Hawke loves that, loves that she doesn't have to say anything for her mother to know what's wrong because she's already seen it in the reflection of her eyes.

"Difficult no," she admits after she's swallowed the first bite of her snack. "Just…odd."

Mother smiles a soft, secretive smile and chuckles. Turning back to her mending she doesn't press further; she can see in Hawke's eyes that perhaps it just can't be put into words. They sit quietly together for a few more moments and Hawke thinks that the conversation is done until she stands to go wash up.

"That was how I felt after my first conversation with your father," Mother says. Her tone suggests she's just musing aloud but the words still strike Hawke with the force of a knife to the spine.

Hawke buries the strange sensation that starts to bloom beneath her ribs and refuses to think on it. It's a tactic that will work for about three years.

**A Minor Acquiescence**

"Slaves do not attract demons that try to possess them."

"Which clearly justifies it? What a perfect solution!"

Hawke can't take them anymore, from the moment they'd all met up that morning, all through the job, and now into the evening Anders and Fenris had been at each other's throats. Again. This is the third time they'd done this and her patience has reached its end.

Slamming down her ale—and causing Merril to jump right into Isabela's lap when she does—she spins on her two bickering companions. Is it _really_ so much to ask that they get through an evening without this rot?

"I _swear_ by Andraste's flaming tits, I am going to tie the both of you up with your arms around one another if this doesn't stop!"

Both Fenris and Anders pale at the sound of her voice. She imagines she looks like her mother often did when separating her and Carver. Dark-gray blue eyes on fire and face an impassive wall of foreboding. She certainly feels that way, and that only makes her angrier. Being the voice of reason is _not_ her niche and everyone bloody well knows that.

The perfect tension of the moment is shattered, of course, by Isabela.

"I would _love_ to see that," the former captain says over Merril's shoulder. "In fact I've got the rope somewhere around here…" She pulls at the collar of her dress/shirt/whatever that scrap of cloth she's always wearing is considered, checking her expansive cleavage as if yards hemp are stuffed in the depths. Considering some of the things Isabela has pulled out of that skimpy outfit Hawke would not at all be surprised if she could.

This must be how Aveline feels all of the time, dealing with her smart mouth and utter lack of tact. Hawke has to start appreciating her friend so much more now.

"Hawke…" Anders begins, his brown eyes wide still wide with surprise. She cuts him off with a shake of her head and he listens, as he always does.

There is so much of this mage that reminds Hawke of her father that it can make her chest hurt. Kind, considerate, determined and sacrificing, the only thing about him she can't understand is his love of cats; she's too Ferelden, attached to her Mabari through and through.

He's nothing like Malcolm when this bitterness rises up, though. Her father was no saint but he didn't hate like Anders does, not even a bit. They agree on so much, she and Anders, and she's always sure he'll watch her back but…

She doesn't like him, sometimes.

Scratch sometimes. It's when he argues with Fenris. Which is actually a little bit insane considering she can't even fathom why it is Fenris is with her yet.

A small part of her is afraid to ask.

Glancing at the other party, she finds the elf's mouth is in an uncharacteristically tight, thin line. He wants to argue with her, that much he can tell but he won't. She has no idea why but that's the norm with Fenris isn't it?

"Varric, deal me out, I'm going home."

"Aw come on, Hawke, don't be a stick in the mud," the (former) pirate captain says as she adjusts a squeaking Merril onto her knee. She's just edging on tipsy, which somehow makes her more ridiculous than she usually is. Maker only knows how that's possible.

Isabela scowls at Fenris and Anders. "You two! Shame! Bothering our fearless leader! There's only one way to fix this!" The wicked spark in her eyes is suddenly so bright that Hawke wonders how her friend isn't on fire. "Kiss and make up! With _tongues_!"

Hawke can't help it. The absolute horror and revulsion that crosses both men's faces—in sync no less—is perhaps the funniest thing she's ever seen. She doesn't mind falling square on her ass, or slopping ale on her breeches, or even how everyone is staring at her, she's too busy laughing until her sides ache and tears fall.

She stays after that, she can't walk away when the air has been so perfectly cleared. Hawke doesn't regret it, mostly because Anders and Fenris are pretty much silent the rest of the evening. Her earlier outburst is not forgotten, however, and an apology eventually comes from the far more surprising party.

She _feels_ that it's Fenris approaching before she turns, which is strange for her and lucky for him. If she hadn't sensed that it was a friend (or whatever the surly elf qualifies as) she would have thrown a knife and asked questions later. The short walk back to Gamlen's isn't something she takes lightly, even on good nights.

He walks beside her quietly for a few moments, as if this is just a normal trek to a job, and Hawke doesn't question him Where Anders reminds her of her father Fenris reminds her of Carver and experience with her baby brother tells Hawke he'll speak on his own or not at all. She's right, of course.

"The mage…vexes me," he says as they pass into the market district.

"Most mages vex you," she replies almost cheerfully. "In fact _vex_ is a bit of an understatement; if you disliked them any less they'd all wither to bits as you passed them."

"You sound like Varric." There's a hint of a smile in his voice.

"Do not, I haven't given you a nickname or written a song about your broodiness."

"A _song_?"

"Isabela helped. You'll love the chorus."

"Vishante Kaffas."

"No, that's not it…"

They both laugh at that, albeit _he_ tries to hide his. It's followed by more silence for another moment or two, though it is not uncomfortable. The wind is blowing strongly that night and in the distance, the very soft rumblings of a storm can be heard. They stop for a moment to listen and after the air is clear, he speaks again.

"I'll try to refrain. With the mage. Our mutual loathing should not be source of irritation for anyone else." He's looking down at his feet, she notices, like a little boy who's been caught skimping on his chores. Like Carver.

A pang takes her by surprise; she thought that those aches were done with but apparently, she's wrong. She pushes that aside though, a thought for her journal later that night, and gives Fenris her attention.

Hawke smiles over at him, knowing that this is probably the closest he's ever going to come to apologizing where Anders is concerned.

"I'll tell Anders to cool it. He _does_ have preachy habit."

His head lifts and he smiles back at her. They're odd things his smiles, very guarded and so rare she sometimes thinks they're just her imagination. "That…is an understatement."

"A bit."

**Cold Comfort**

Her return from the Deep Roads is supposed to be a celebration. She had clawed her way through Darkspawn, profane, demons, one hell of a betrayal, and, somehow, come out on top. Hawke is a survivor, more than that, she's a winner; Varric has assured her that their haul is going to make her a rich woman.

There should have been a celebration in her home. They wouldn't be with Gamlen anymore; the Hawke women would have a proper home all to themselves in Hightown. Leandra would have the rest she deserved and Bethany…Bethany would have the world on a platter.

That was how it was _supposed_ to be and for whatever reason, Hawke had allowed herself to believe that such a fairytale was possible.

As she watches the Templar lead her little sister out the door, all of Hawke's recent accomplishments suddenly mean nothing. She's failed again, just like with Carver.

The grand party she imagines turns into her getting pissed at the Hanged Man. Her friends all know what's happened and only Anders is foolish enough to approach her. She tosses a full pint in his face when he starts in on the horrors of the Circle. No one bothers her after Aveline tugs him away.

At least not for a very long time.

It's close to dawn; the tavern is empty save for Hawke, the bartender, the serving girl, and a few other patrons who've long since passed out. Well, Varric and Isabela are around too, she's sure of that even if she can't see them. Later, when she's sobered up and less depressed, she will remember what good friends she has and buy their rounds for almost a year.

That is later, though. For the moment, she sits at a corner table, nursing a bottle of whiskey, and hating herself. The Templars, the Chantry, the Deep Roads, and the unfairness of life are all in there too but mostly it's herself.

The bottle is halfway gone when Fenris sits down across from her.

"If you open your mouth to tell me that this is for the best, Fenris, one of us will not leave this hole with a pulse." She knows it's unfair to come out swinging like this but Hawke's beyond caring. Her little sister was stolen away to be locked in a tower for the rest of her life just because of her magic. The elf who has joined her has always made his negative stance on apostates very clear. This will not be a day where she makes allowance for his scars; not when she's trying to mend her own.

He stars at her for a few moments, his very green eyes locked onto her face. She can't see what's going on in the depths of that pretty green; many lights flicker through the minute folds in his irises. Hawke can't read him well enough when she's operating at full capacity; there's no hope now.

Finally, just as she's about to pretend to be _him_ and toss a bottle somewhere, he speaks.

"I would never do that, Hawke," he says. She doesn't know why but she can tell that he means it. "Not to you. Not about Bethany."

"Blight take you, why do you have to be nice to me _tonight_?" Hawke feels something inside crumbling, something that she's successfully held onto since she watched Bethany trudge out the door. Her eyes sting and she presses her palms to them until patches of color bloom behind the lids. A vain effort, the tears start rolling anyway. That flood is accompanied by another, where her lips seem to have taken on a mind of their own.

"It's not _right_, Fenris. It isn't. Evil exists everywhere, not just in the abuses of magic. But _this_ is where it starts. They take someone's sister, someone's brother, or father, or—or—Blighted _whatever_ and lock them away from the rest of the world! Away from people who love them—who—who _need_ them! And it leaves…a _hole_. Something you can't ever fill up."

Out of breath, she pauses, shaking and sucking in air. The whiskey has been overturned, she notices, it lies on its side at her elbow, all but a few droplets pooled onto the table, the floor, and soaking into the fabric of her shirt. She doesn't care, though, not even a bit.

Across from her Fenris is still watching, though now there's something on his face. An emotion that isn't rage or disdain and its focused so wholly on her that it makes Hawke's throat tighten all over again. Perhaps that's why she starts to ramble again.

"Who's she going to crawl into bed with when a storm comes?" She isn't really asking him but her eyes are locked with his nonetheless. "She _hates_ thunder and lightning."

Her lungs feel old and abused when she lets her next breath rattle out. "Maker…I—I should have never let her out of my sight. I shouldn't have let her go. I should…"

He's wearing his gauntlets still—when is he ever not?—so she feels the cold pressure of his hand through the thin cotton of her shirt. It digs too, ever so slightly, into the meat of her shoulder. Hawke doesn't shrug him off though. The discomfort grounds her, his presence grounds her, and she rests her own palm lightly against his wrist.

They remain like that for Maker only knows how long; it's how she finally passes out.


	2. Act I: Fenris

**Disclaimer:** Bioware owns everything; I'm just pissing around with the toys they loaned me. Reviews are nice

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**Act I: Fenris**

**Grudging**

Fenris expects the average sellsword and entourage. Someone craggy and direct; a rough, tough, meathead who smells of a thousand shady jobs and can barely say their own name. He gets tough but that's the only expectation properly met.

The woman Anso acquires, Hawke, is different from anyone he's encountered before; that much he can tell just on sight. Everything about her is sensible, from her well-padded armor to the axes that she swings with great precision. She's skilled, highly skilled, and she's worked bloody hard at it, he can tell.

Her mind, most surprisingly, is about as sharp as her blades, perhaps even sharper. Paired with her glib tongue he finds himself almost in awe of this woman. This is especially true when Hawke agrees to help him even after she makes it clear that his misdirection wasn't appreciated.

Then he sees her sister casting spells.

He can't like her when she so adamantly defends and protects an apostate. It's too difficult, no, actually, it's impossible. And yet…

A week passes with no sight of Hawke on his dusty doorstep, after she tells him that she might take his help. Fenris doesn't want to say that it's disheartening, it's not. It's just…

He can't repay his debt if she doesn't let him.

The odd dwarf does stop by though, inviting Fenris to the tawdry little pub in Lowtown for drinks and cards. He has nothing better to do so he goes along.

If Hawke happens to be there, it's mere coincidence.

Hawke is absent, at least the Hawke that _he_ wants. Her sister is there, though, laughing brightly despite her very poor playing. Not that he should try and judge someone else at this game, not when Isabela and Varric wipe the floor with him all evening. The thieves.

While he plays (loses), he observes the younger woman. For someone with the potential to bring ruin to everything around her, he has to admit that she's a very sweet girl. More than once Varric refer to her as "Sunshine" and, really, Fenris can't disagree.

On top of all that, she speaks kindly to him. With the way he had acted when last they met, he expects a cold shoulder, perhaps even hostility. Bethany surprises him with her politeness. Fenris will never trust her but he finds himself unable to loathe her.

He doesn't care for the way she can see through him, though.

"You came to see my sister, didn't you?" she asks as they leave the Hanged Man. Fenris had offered Varric to see her home so that the dwarf would not have to forfeit his drinking contest with Isabela. And for Hawke; he _will_ repay her even it takes a thousand little things like this to clear his conscious.

He doesn't show it, but her observation surprises him, just a little. She smiles at him when he raises an eyebrow at her.

Shrugging, she continues. "I saw you, looking around all night like you were waiting for someone."

"I owe her," he replies evenly. "She has helped to keep me free. I pay my debts."

For a moment or two, her soft, honey-brown eyes focus on him and he's not at all sure what the look she wears could mean. Fenris feels like he's being evaluated, something he doesn't care for considering all of his memories of Danarius and his lackeys doing the same. But Bethany is not Danarius; there's nothing calculating or predatory in her gaze and her smile doesn't fill his stomach up with a dark sense of foreboding.

On the contrary, Bethany's smile brings to mind her sister and Fenris…is all right with that.

She invites him inside when they make it to the hovel that their uncle owns, suggesting that her sister is probably home by now. He declines; as late as it is he can't see Hawke still being awake nor appreciating his interruption of her sleep. Besides, he's not actually sure what he wants to say to her.

**Hiding The Heart**

Fenris has never desired a woman before, not really. True, even as a slave, walking around with his head in a fog, he'd been able to recognize beauty when it was in his presence. Aesthetic appeal, however, is not longing, even a man as closed off as he is knows that.

He's yearned for freedom, for blood, for quiet, and forgiveness but never another person. Not until Hawke.

She flirts with him just a few times but those passing remarks are apparently all it takes to keep him from sleep.

His dreams are full of her. Hawke's wry smile, her twinkling eyes, the scent of her reddish brown hair, the impish curl of her lips, all of them consume him in the Fade. And in his dreams, he imagines things he'd never dare while waking.

It's frightening for him, realizing that he wants her. The sensation is so alien, so strange, that it positively hurts and he wakes up shaking, glowing, and aching in his bed.

Fenris knows that he's broken, more or less. But he's been fine with that. Fine with only one goal in his life, one burning motivation. It's beautifully uncomplicated. Then in comes Hawke.

Hawke with her smart mouth and pigheaded attitude. Hawke who he should hate because of her unwavering support of magic. Hawke who he can _never_ possibly hate because she goes out of her way to protect those who can't protect themselves.

His bones already know the truth, as do the brands that flare every night that her face flashes through his mind. He's in love with her, even if he can't comprehend just what it is to love another person yet. Some primal part of Fenris recognizes it, cherishes it, and willingly bows down to it.

The rest of him does what he does best; he runs, tucking the want and need down as deep as it he can. It's not as deep as he would like, though. Fenris is an expert at hiding but not even he's talented enough to lie to himself forever. Three years, however, is an impressive span of time.

**Unexpected Advice**

He hates Anders. No, hate isn't a word that's strong enough; there may not even be a word that's strong enough. The fact that Fenris can be in the same vicinity as the fool and resist ripping out his heart is testament to willpower that a statue should be erected to.

If Anders weren't such a zealot Fenris honestly wouldn't mind him. The mage, he has to admit (never out loud, though), is not a bad man, quite the contrary, in fact. He offers healing for those who otherwise would not be able to get it and Fenris knows for a fact that Anders has an abysmal opinion of slavery. Were it not for two key things, their relationship might have a little less venom saturating it.

The most obvious is his campaign for mage freedom; there can be no middle ground between them on that. Fenris recognizes his views waver upon the extreme, and perhaps if he encounters more like Bethany they won't always be so hard. Even then, though, he doesn't see himself in the same room with Anders and _not_ wanting to maim him.

Hawke is the other thing.

She doesn't notice it, of course; Hawke is too busy making jokes and working her rear-end off (a very surprising mixture) for her Deep Roads funds to notice the way Anders looks at her. Sad-eyed, needy, and wanting, like a small cat that's just been rescued from a bag in the river. It's pathetic.

And it worries Fenris.

Unlike him, Anders is without a doubt Hawke's friend, a good friend too, if he's going to judge. Whenever they're in company together she smiles and laughs with him. Fenris knows she worries about Anders, often makes treks into Darktown at night to check up on him, and goes out of her way to make sure that he eats. That very morning she'd half-forced an extra sweet roll down his throat, telling the mage that he looked too thin.

She does that with Merril and Bethany too, though, so Fenris restrains himself from full on panic.

He's got no right to do it, Hawke is not an object and she'll never be the kind of woman who sees possessiveness as a romantic gesture; a very nice quality. Not to mention he hasn't even been able to consciously admit his feelings let alone act on them. Regardless of those facts, Fenris can't stop his hackles from going up around Anders and especially when the mage's eyes fall on Hawke. He turns into a dog, teeth bared in longing for his mistress to toss that pathetic cat right back into the water.

It never occurs to Fenris that the fights he and Anders pick with one another will bother Hawke. Which, looking back on, _very_ stupid. What really surprises him—aside from the initial jolt of her yelling—is that her anger isn't all on him. Anders gets the same at-wit's-end glare that he does; he's not the special mage tonight.

The tension boiling in the air—and in Hawke's eyes—is diffused by Isabela's chicanery. It's for the best despite the revulsion her joke has Fenris' stomach rolling with. Still, her jest is a favor to him, it keeps Hawke from leaving.

Isabela, it turns out, has a penchant for giving him assistance when it comes to Hawke.

"Apologizing works better than glowering, you know," the pirate startles him out of his preoccupation with listening to Hawke and Varric's goodbye-banter. He finds the dwarf's easygoing nature enviable, particularly when it comes to the auburn-haired rogue walking out the door.

He turns his glare on Isabela, a sharp retort ready to roll off the tip of his tongue, but she cuts him off.

Leaning in close—far too close—she stares at him very intently, almost as if she's trying to look right through him. The unsettling thing is that he thinks she just might be able to.

"Anders is stubborn." Isabela's tone is almost pleasant; the edges of her eyes are starkly serious. "It's probably the best and worst thing about him."

"What's your point?" he barks, though good sense tells him he shouldn't. Fenris knows that contrary to popular opinion (Aveline and Anders) Isabela is smart. Damned smart. A person doesn't survive the sea, let alone become a captain sailing on it, without being sharper than every blade in the Templar armory. Plus, she's freed slavery, random attack of conscious or no.

Isabela isn't put off by his growling and instead of telling him to sod off or knocking him off of his bar stool, she makes a face and punches his arm. "My _point_, ingrate, is that you've got an edge on him. Do what our favorite abomination won't." She smirks suddenly, reverting to her normal, impish self in a flash. "Besides, the rain is going to come. If nothing else you'll get to see how good Fearless Leader looks in a wet tunic."

As his jaw drops, she winks then slinks off toward Merril, tossing her arm over the elfin mage's shoulders and calling for more whiskey. Isabela appears preoccupied from that point on but Fenris _knows_ she's watching him. Still, the smug looks he'll be putting up with for weeks to come will be worth it; she's right.

He gains a little bit of leverage against her though. It does rain that night and Isabela sulks like child when he repeatedly denies her inquiries to what Hawke does in fact look like in a soaking wet tunic.

**The Flickering Light**

It's almost impossible for him to admit out loud but Fenris has come to like Bethany. She is a good person, strong-willed and careful; everything that he's been hounded into believing a mage could not be. Hawke's baby sister has, somehow, become his friend.

And then the news of Knight Captain Cullen whisking her off to the Gallows comes.

For a moment or two, after Varric and Aveline tell him, he's actually ready to storm the Templars' base to get her back. It's foolish and ultimately something that Fenris doesn't have to consider, but the thought is still there. He prays a little, for the first time he can remember, that Bethany will at least be safe in her cage.

And that her sister will be able to survive it.

Hawke is not the sort of woman to fall to pieces; it's just not in her make. Sardonic wit and a nasty left hook, yes, but crying and lost? Never. It can't happen.

Or that's what he'd thought.

It isn't as if she just falls apart, wailing in his arms like some soft little _girl_ in a ballad. Her tears, though, they startle him, and he feels wholly inadequate to witness this.

For a second or two he contemplates leaving; he's sure that he'll only make things worse. Fenris can barely wade through his own emotions, how can he hope to aid Hawke with hers? Varric and Isabela are watching from hidden corners of the bar, though, and it's their eyes and expectations that give him courage.

He lets Hawke rant then touches her shoulder, squeezing lightly. Somehow, by some little miracle, that's enough. He feels that in the way that her muscles sag beneath his hand and in the how her palm molds itself to his wrist. She doesn't look at him but he knows, feels it; Hawke is with him.

The Maker only knows how long they sit like that, but it doesn't feel very long to Fenris. If anything, the moment is too short and he sincerely wishes he'd taken off his gauntlets. The hardness can't be pleasant digging at her through her simple shirt and jerkin. Not to mention that he wishes he could _feel_ her hand on him.

He realizes Hawke's finally succumbed to sleep when her head lolls and her fingers slip. Without even thinking, Fenris pulls her up into his arms. Then he stands for a few moments, wondering what in the hell he should do now.

Varric rescues him from his moment of clueless (useless) chivalry.

"Come on, Elf, she can have my bed," the dwarf says with a wave toward the staircase.

Fenris nods and starts toward Varric's quarters, adjusting Hawke's weight as he goes. It's a long walk, not because she's very heavy—she's not exactly light, but she's not an unacceptable burden, either—but it feels very…odd for him. And perhaps not odd in a bad way.

Hawke's head rolls to his shoulder and he can feel her warm breath against his neck. He can also smell some noxious whiskey fumes but Fenris finds that he can live with that. In fact, he almost misses the stench when he lays her down on Varric's soft looking coverlet.

He lingers at her side, finding little reasons to remain and watch her tired face. Fenris takes her boots off for her, arranges them neatly at the bed's end, and even tucks her in. When there is no plausible reason left for him to stay he sits on the edge of the bed, unable to leave.

Hawke's dreams appear to be as tumultuous as her life as of late and her face shifts often in sleep. Fenris watches her, listens to the murmurs that occasionally slip out, wishing again that he could offer some comfort.

Again, the solution is simple and comes to him out of nowhere.

Removing his gauntlets Fenris presses a hesitant palm to her cheek, sliding a rust colored tendril back behind her ear. The tension that creases Hawke's brow slowly dissipates. He stays like that, soaking up the heat of her skin until her breathing is deep, even, and slow, and his own body feels heavy with the need for rest.


End file.
